Kitty Biedermann hated Texas.
That single thought had echoed through her mind from the
time the flight attendant had said the words
"unscheduled landing in Midland, Texas," until this
moment, five hours later, when she found herself sitting in
the bar adjacent the seedy motel in which she would be
forced to spend the night.
The last time she'd been in Texas, she'd been dumped by her
fiancรฉ. Of course, he hadn't been just any old fiancรฉ. He'd
been the man she'd handpicked to save Biedermann Jewelry
from financial ruin. So being dumped hadn't resulted in mere
public humiliation or simple heartbreak. It meant the end of
Biedermann Jewelry. So it was understandable that Kitty held
a bit of grudge, not just against Derek Messina, but against
the whole damn state.
Since being dumped by Derek, her situation had gone from bad
to worse to desperate. She had needed Derek.
From the time she was a child, she'd been raised with one
purpose—to land a husband with the smarts and business
savvy to run Biedermann's. When Derek hadn't wanted her,
she'd remained undaunted. But now, after six months of
working her way through every single, eligible straight man
she knew, she was beginning to feel… well, daunted.
With this latest trip to Palm Beach, she'd been scraping the
bottom of the barrel. Geoffrey barely had two functioning
synapses to rub together, but at least he could read, write
and looked damn good in a suit. But even as meager as his
qualifications had been, he hadn't wanted her.
Biedermann's meant everything to her. It was slipping
through her fingers and there didn't seem to be anything she
could do to catch it.
Now, with her elbows propped on the suspiciously sticky bar
top and her chin propped in her palms, she stared at the
murky green depths of her salt-rimmed margarita glass. She
gave the glass a little shake, watching as the ice cubes
within tumbled to the bottom of the glass. A lifetime of
planning had fallen apart just as quickly. Was this rock bottom?
Her throat tightened against despair. Immediately she
straightened, blinking in surprise. She was not given to
fits of self-pity. Certainly not in public.
She shook her glass again, studying the contents. Exactly
what was in this margarita? After a mere two drinks she
should not be succumbing to such maudlin emotions.
Maybe this was what she got for giving the bartender a hard
time. When she'd ordered a Pinot Grigio, he'd asked, "Is
that like a wine cooler?" Apparently she shouldn't have
doubted him when he said he'd make her a drink strong enough
to knock her on her pampered, scrawny butt.
She was still contemplating the contents of her drink when
she happened to glance toward the door and saw
him
striding in.
It was as if someone tossed a bucket of icy water on her.
Every cell in her body snapped to life in pure visceral
response. The stranger was tall and lean, somehow managing
to look lanky but well-built all at the same time. He was
dressed simply in well-worn jeans and a T-shirt that
stretched taut across his shoulders, but hung loose over his
abdomen. No beer belly on this guy. A cowboy hat sat
cockeyed on his head, but he wore scuffed work boots instead
of the cowboy boots she expected.
Her first thought—when she was capable of thought
again—was,
Now this
is a cowboy. This
was what women the world over romanticized.
This
was a man at his most basic. Most masculine.
Even from across the room, her body responded to him
instantly, pumping endorphins down to the tips of her
curling toes. Funny, because she'd always preferred her men
sophisticated and suave. As well-groomed as they were
well-educated.
She was, in fact, so distracted by this mystery cowboy who'd
just sauntered in that she didn't see the other guy sidling
up to her. The rough hand on her arm was her first clue
someone had claimed the stool beside hers. Swiveling around,
she realized that hand belonged to a guy who could not have
been more different than the cowboy who'd snagged her
attention. This man was short and, um… plump. He was
bald except for a few wisps of hair grown long, combed over
and plastered down with what she could only hope was some
sort of styling product. His cheeks were rosy, his nose
bulbous. He looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn't
possibly have met him before.
"Well, hello there, little lady." He stroked a hand
up her arm. "Whadda say we getcha some'tem cold to drink
and we scoot on out to that there dance floor?"
"Pardon?" She—barely—suppressed a shiver
of disgust at his touch. She tried to wiggle free from his
grasp, but he had boxed her in between the bar and the woman
on the stool beside her.
Why was he rubbing her arm like that? Did she know this man?
After all, he
did look familiar.
"You wanna take a turn around the room?"
"A turn at what?" she asked, genuinely not
understanding him. She spoke four languages, for goodness'
sake, but Texan was not one of them.
The man frowned. "Are you makin' fun a me?"
"No," she protested. Unfortunately, it was then that
she figured out where she knew him from. "Elmer
Fudd!" she blurted out. "You look like Elmer Fudd!"
Normally, she would not have said anything, but she'd
already gulped down two of those wicked margaritas. And all
she'd eaten since lunch was a packet of airline peanuts. So
her tongue was looser than normal.
Indignation settled over his pudgy features. He leaned
toward her, scowling. "Whadja call me?"
"I… I didn't mean it as an insult."
"You
are makin' fun a me." The man's face
flushed red, only increasing his resemblance to the cartoon
hunter.
"No! I…I…I…"
And there it was. She, who almost always knew exactly what
to say and who could talk herself into and out of almost any
situation, for better or for worse, was speechless. Horribly so.
She'd unintentionally insulted and offended a man who was
probably armed right now. This was it. She was going to die.
Alone. Miserable. In Texas. Murdered in a fit of rage. By a
man who looked like Elmer Fudd.
Ford Langley could see trouble coming the second he stepped
into The Dry Well, his favorite bar in Midland.
The Well was the kind of seedy dive that rednecks and oil
rig workers had been coming to, through boom and bust, for
sixty years or so. Since the Green Energy branch of FMJ,
Ford's company, leased land for their wind turbines from a
lot of the people in here, he figured they all knew who he
was and how much he was worth. They just didn't care.
Frankly, it was a relief places like this still existed in
the world.
It was not, however, the kind of place women wore couture
suits and designer shoes. Ford had three sisters with
expensive taste. He knew a five-hundred-dollar pair of shoes
when he saw them.
The woman sitting at the bar looked startlingly out of
place. He'd never seen her there before. He came to The Well
almost every time he visited Midland, and he definitely
would have remembered this broad.
The word
broad filtered through and stuck in his
mind, because that's exactly what she looked like. The sexy
broad who ambles into the PI's office in an old film noir
movie. Lustrous flowing hair, long silk-clad legs, bright
red lipstick, gut-wrenching sex appeal. With just enough
wide-eyed innocence thrown in to make a man want to be the
one to save her. Even though he knew instinctively that he
would get kicked in the teeth for his trouble.
To make matters worse, she was talking to Dale Martin, who,
Ford knew, had been going through arough divorce. Dale had
undoubtedly come in looking for what The Well provided best:
booze, brawls and one-night stands. Given how completely out
of his league the woman was, Ford could already guess which
Dale was going to get.
When Ford heard Dale's distinctive drawl rising above the
blare of the jukebox, Ford moved through the crowd, closing
in on the brewing conflict, hoping he could cut trouble off
at the pass.
He approached just in time to hear Dale accuse her of making
fun of him. Hiding his cringe, Ford slung an arm around the
woman's shoulders.
The stubborn woman tried to pull out of his grasp, but he
held her firm. "I will—"
"Dale, buddy," he continued before she could ruin
his efforts. "I see you met my date." He sent the
woman a pointed look, hoping she'd take the hint and stop
trying to squirm away. "Sugar, did you introduce
yourself to my buddy, Dale?"
"It's Kitty," she snapped.
Dale was looking from him to her with a baffled expression.
Which was fine, because Ford figured confused was better
than furious.
"Right, sugar." Ford gave her shoulder an obvious
squeeze. Winking at Dale, he added, "Kitty here's one of
those feminist types."
She blinked, as if having trouble keeping up with the
conversation. "Insisting that I be called by my given
name and not some generic endearment does not make
me—"
"She's a bit prickly, too." Based on her accent, he
made a guess. "You know how Yankees are, Dale."
"I am not prickly," she protested.
But with Ford's last comment, a smile spread across Dale's
face and at her protest, he burst out laughing, having
forgotten or excused whatever she'd said to offend him.
After all, she was a Yankee and obviously couldn't be
expected to know better.
With Dale sufficiently distracted, Ford tugged the
delectable Kitty off her stool and nudged her toward The
Well's crowded dance floor. "Come on. Why don't you show
me what you can do in those fancy shoes of yours, sugar?"
At "sugar" he gave Dale another exaggerated wink.
She, of course, squeaked an indignant protest, which only
made Dale laugh harder.
When they were out of Dale's hearing range, she once again
tried to pull away from him. "Thank you, I'm sure. But I
could have handled him myself. So you can't seriously expect
me to dance with you."
"'Course I do. Dale's watching."
Before she could voice any more protests, or worse,
undermine all his hard work, he stepped onto the dance
floor, spun her to face him and pulled her close. The second
he felt her body pressed to his, he had to ask himself, had
he really orchestrated all of that to avoid a fight or had
he been angling for this all along?
She was taller than she'd looked sitting on the stool. With
her heels on, her head came up past his chin, which was
rare, since he dwarfed most women. As he'd suspected, her
boxy suit hid a figure that was nicely rounded without being
plump. She was de-lectably, voluptuously curved.
He felt the sharp bite of lust deep in his gut. Maybe he
shouldn't have been surprised. He lived a fairly
high-profile life back in San Francisco. As a result, he
picked his lovers carefully for their discretion,
sophistication and lack of expectations. He had enough
responsibility without saddling himself with a spouse.
Unfortunately, it had been nearly six months since his
previous girlfriend, Rochelle, had gone out for lunch one
day with a friend who had kids and came home dreaming of
designer diaper bags. He'd been happy to dodge that bullet
and hadn't been in a hurry to find someone to replace her.
Which probably explained his strong reaction to this woman.
Kitty, she'd said her name was.
As he moved her into a shuffle of a Texas two-step, he felt
her body relax against his. If his instincts were right,
Kitty was smart, beautiful and used to taking care of
herself. In short, she was exactly his sort of woman. She
just may be the most interesting thing that had happened to
him in a long time.
Kitty had never before found herself in this situation.
Naturally she often danced with men she'd only just met. But
she kept very careful tabs on the social scene in Manhattan.
As a result, she usually knew the net worth, family history
and sexual inclinations of every male in the room.
What some might consider mere gossip, she considered her
professional obligation. She was in no position to date,
marry or even notice a man who couldn't bring his own
personal fortune to her family coffers. Unfortunately, ever
since Suzy Snark had caught Kitty in her sights, the
business of finding a rich husband had become increasingly
difficult. Derek—damn him—had been the perfect
choice. Until he'd gone and fallen in love.
But the truth was, she was tired of planning every move she
made. This stranger with whom she was dancing, this cowboy,
this man she'd never see again after tonight, made her pulse
quicken.
From the moment she'd seen him sauntering through the door
to the instant he'd pulled her body against his, she'd felt
more alive than she had in months. Years, maybe. Somehow the
scent of him, masculine and spicy, rose up from his chest
and cut through the stench of stale smoke and cheap beer.
His shoulders and arms were firm and muscular without being
bulky. He had the physique of a man who worked for a living.
Who lifted heavy things and shouldered massive burdens. The
hand that cradled hers was slightly rough. This was a man
who'd never had a manicure, never taken a Pilates class and
probably didn't own a suit.
In short, he was a real man. Unlike the pampered men of her
acquaintance. Most of whom, she was sorry to say, were
likable, but were just a little bit… well, that is to
say…well, they were sissies. And until this moment,
she'd never realized that bothered her. She'd never known
she wanted anything else.
Her face was only inches from his shirt and she had to fight
against the sudden impulse to bury her nose in his chest. To
rub her cheek against his sternum like a cat marking her
territory.
It had been so long since she felt this kind of instant
sexual attraction to someone. Geesh, had she ever felt this
kind of attraction? She didn't think so.
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